Impaired Judgment
by HalfshellVenus1
Summary: Michael/Lincoln Slash, pre-series: Sometimes you cross a line without even knowing you're doing it…


Title: **Impaired Judgment**

Author: HalfshellVenus

Characters: Lincoln/Michael (**Slash**)

Rating: M

Summary: Sometimes you cross a line without even knowing you're doing it…

Author's Notes: For LiveJournal's fanfic100, where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is for prompt #60, "Drink."

x-x-x-x-x

Some bad ideas start out like nothing, like "Superman can fly because he has a cape."

Like "Let me copy your homework just this once."

Like, "I brought a bottle of Jack Daniels. Let's drink it."

This is how Michael and Lincoln find themselves sliding off the sofa in Michael's buttoned-down smooth-jazz living room. Michael's not a big drinker, and Lincoln doesn't know when to quit. Between the two of them, there isn't enough sense left now to figure out heating up water in a microwave oven.

"So then Ricky… he goes… _I can't believe you broke my nose_," Lincoln gasps out. "And I said… _Believe it or don't, but let me know when you figure out where all that blood's coming from._"

Michael's shoulders quake with newfound hilarity. "That's sick."

"But funny," Lincoln nods wisely.

"It's _sick_ that it's funny," Michael pretends to argue.

"It's funny because it's sick," Lincoln counters.

"Does this impress the women, this kind of thing?" Michael asks.

Lincoln grins. "Doesn't have to impress them, but they squeal a lot, and they bat my arms or fall up against me and giggle."

Michael laughs again. He can just see it—see Veronica, all girly protests and flailing. "God, that's lame. You're such a dick."

"Exactly," Lincoln waggles his eyebrows, and Michael crosses over into hiccupping hysterics and thuds onto the floor half into Lincoln's lap.

"It looks a lot like _this,_ actually," Lincoln continues, like a professor giving a seminar. "And then, _Oh Lincoln, you're so bad!_ and they do that flirty slapping/giggling thing."

"You're killing me," Michael squeaks out as the tears run down his cheeks. God, it's so weird and dumb, and no wonder he doesn't understand women— because why would they actually fall for this crap? "And then what, you sweep them off their feet?"

Lincoln shakes with laughter, leans in closer. "No, I… I pull them over and comfort them…" and he pulls Michael to him with broad movements. "Then I kiss them until they forget how it started," and Lincoln makes kissy lips at Michael while his brother giggles uncontrollably. "Except they don't do that," he finishes.

"Do what?" Michael says.

"They don't laugh! They totally get into it—they melt like butter."

Michael giggles again. "You are so full of it—I don't believe that for a minute. Show me this Master Technique, Obi-Wan."

"Fine," Lincoln says, and he's drunk enough to be competitive instead of smart.

He hooks his arm around behind Michael's neck and lifts his head up into position, moving in for the kill. His mouth is on Michael's, sure and soft, caressing Michael's lips with his own more and more strongly. He must have made his point already, because Michael is nearly boneless in his arms, but he forgets about that as he finishes the kiss and feels Michael's swift intake of breath stir the air against his lips. The sound of that—that tingling sensation—draws Lincoln right back down, and he kisses Michael again and again as Michael's mouth parts under his and Lincoln feels the velvet pull of Michael suckling on his lower lip.

Whiskey-laced heat flows between them, and Lincoln raises his knee for Michael to lean against. If he had an ounce of sense he'd have stopped this already, but there's always been too much between them—the two of them everything to each other against a system that would have left them lost and forgotten in an impersonal world.

A sane person would remember that this is his brother (never mind that Michael's doing more than his share of the kissing). Instead, Lincoln's head is full of, _Oh, oh yeah, just fucking touch me already, touch me now._

Michael shifts between Lincoln's legs, the movement bringing him in sharp contact with Lincoln's erection. Lincoln's tongue is suddenly halfway down Michael's throat, his hand unbuttoning the fly-front of Michael's jeans. Michael helps push those pants off, then lifts up and over to the floor, turning and drawing Lincoln down to lie between his legs. The room spins for a moment—Lincoln's head swimming in a haze of alcohol as the change in position makes him lose his bearings. When he can think again, Michael's biting his lip and gripping his ass to force him in closer.

Reality ebbs and flows as he thrusts up against Michael, his hips working in little circles as he grinds himself into Michael and feels their hardness trapped between them. Michael moans—kissing him so dirty-hot and _wet_—and Lincoln's chest hitches in gasps as Michael's leg comes around behind him to press him closer, harder, _there_. He moves faster, _faster_ as Michael grows restless with the sharp, delicious buildup. In three quick breaths Lincoln comes with Michael's lip caught fast between his teeth, his hips shimmying over Michael's groin as the climax rolls through him. Michael comes then too, he thinks, or just afterward—his head thrown back and his neck bared to the whims of Lincoln's eager mouth.

The cling to each other—nearly choking with the intensity—awash in hormones and confusion from the liquor in their veins. Michael's heartbeat sings up through Lincoln's body, and Lincoln is torn between _What just happened?_ and _So fucking hot_.

"You _are_ bad," Michael breathes now that it's over. His words tickle Lincoln's ear, making him shiver with the echo of everything they just did.

"Never said I wasn't," Lincoln answers—like it's a joke instead of the simple, honest truth.

They'll be hung over six ways from Sunday tomorrow, and with luck they'll forget this ever happened.

But if not, it looks like Lincoln's found a new way to fuck things up.

And right now he's too damn drunk to even be sorry.

_-- fin --_


End file.
